


Suavis et decorum sicut Jerusalem

by champagneleftie



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Choir AU, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/champagneleftie/pseuds/champagneleftie
Summary: Pulchra es, amica mea.He can never sing it without thinking of Even.Which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t actually know Even. Has barely spoken more than a handful of words to him. Can hardly even look at him. And still he just won’t leave Isak be.





	Suavis et decorum sicut Jerusalem

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been so long that I've completely forgotten what you're supposed to write here! This little fic came into existence as a part of Evakteket's SKAMenger hunt, in response to the prompt northern lights. Which I interpreted liberally, as I'm wont to do: the northern lights in this fic is Ola Gjeilo's piece _Northern Lights_ , rather than the actual phenomena. 
> 
> I recommend listening to the song, or the fic might not make very much sense? You can find it on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/06xbnCwbZ6ccSij5v9ccOt%22) or [youtube](https://youtu.be/pjf4i-WU7jE). 
> 
> And these are the lyrics, from the Song of Songs:   
> Pulchra es amica mea,  
> suavis et decora filia Jerusalem,  
> Pulchra es amica mea,  
> suavis et decora sicut Jerusalem,  
> terribilis ut castrorum acies ordinata.  
> Averte oculos tuos a me  
> quia ipsi me avolare fecerunt.
> 
> Thou art beautiful, O my love,  
> sweet and beautiful daughter of Jerusalem,  
> Thou art beautiful, O my love,  
> sweet and comely as Jerusalem,  
> terrible as an army set in array.  
> Turn away thy eyes from me,  
> for they have made me flee away.
> 
> Irazor is an angel and read this through for me, thank you darling!

Isak presses the piano keys, e, d, e again. As softly, as quietly as he can, but the sound is still too loud, too large for the darkened room, filled with looming shadows of instrument cases and bookcases packed with sheet music. Picks out the entire dissonant chord, tries to find his place in it. 

Tries to sear it into his brain, his throat, stomach, body. 

It’s not even that difficult. Not even close to the most difficult piece they’ve sung since he came here, not by far. 

But for some reason, it just won’t stick. 

He wants to blame the voices around him, Magnus next to him, his first tenor chafing against his own second, the basses just behind them, but he knows that probably isn’t the problem. Never is, at least not usually. He’s too good for that. Usually has no problem singing even the trickier pieces  _ a vista,  _ usually earning him an appreciative glance and maybe even a nod from their notoriously picky director. 

It’s just now, this once, that  _ nothing is working.  _ That he’d instead gotten the surly remark that the second tenors needed to work on their intonation, but she could trust them to do that,  _ right?  _

He plays it again, sings it again, as quietly as he can. 

The school is empty. He knows this, but it’s still creepy. Off, somehow, to wander the quiet halls that are usually so full of sound, of students hurrying to class, of impromptu improvisations, of incessant rehearsing. Especially in the past few weeks – as always right before the end of the semester, right before their major concerts. And now it’s almost pitch black. He hasn’t even turned on the light in the practice room. Makes do with the faint light of the street lamps outside. 

He shouldn’t even really be here. Should be at home, in his bed at the bedsit, resting his vocal cords so he can perform as he should tomorrow. Should be listening to Magnus’ snores from the other side of the thin wall. Shouldn’t even have a key, technically, but the teachers are pretty good at turning a blind eye to students who want to get in some extra practice hours over the weekend. And the students, in turn, are pretty good at sharing. 

And it’s not like he’d get much sleep, anyway, so he might as well practice. 

He’s more nervous than he should be. Than he should have to be. He should be fine with concerts by now, should be used to it. And for the most part, he is. For the most part, he even enjoys it. The culmination, fruition of all they’re hard work. Being surrounded by his friends, working as one to bring something beautiful into the world. The satisfied smile that finally, finally graces the directors’ face when they live up to her expectations. The applause. And this time, he knows most of the songs already – at least half of them are the same as at last year’s Christmas concert, and a few more are pieces he did with his last choir, before he moved. So he should really be fine. Calm. 

But his parents are coming. 

For the first time since he moved here, his parents are coming to one of his concerts. 

He wishes that that wouldn’t affect him this much, that it wouldn’t be such a big deal. That he could feel every teaspoon of independence that he affected when he researched this school, applied, took the bus by himself to the audition and found a place to stay. But in the darkness, alone with just the piano and his own voice, he can admit, if only to himself, that it is a big deal, it does affect him. 

He just wants them to be happy. To be proud of him. To see that this was a good idea. Wants to recapture just a little drop of the magic of when he was a child, when they would come to every concert he took part in and always shower him with praise. 

It probably won’t happen. He knows that. But he can’t keep himself from hoping, almost beyond hope. 

But as he picks up the chord again, he’s grateful that his mother doesn’t know latin and won’t understand the lyrics to this particular song, at least. That she’ll just think it’s another Christmas song, that she won’t realise just what part of the Bible it’s from. 

_ Pulchra es, amica mea.  _

He can never sing it without thinking of Even. 

Which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t actually know Even. Has barely spoken more than a handful of words to him. Can hardly even look at him. And still he just won’t leave Isak be. Won’t vacate his mind even long enough for him to learn this fucking song. 

And not just Isak’s, apparently. He’s heard the rumors, the whispers about why he disappeared last year, in the middle of the year. That supposedly, he had some kind of nervous breakdown, that he stayed awake for days, composing music, and then turned up outside his girlfriend’s window in the middle of the night to serenade her. She’s gone now, graduated and already almost forgotten. But Even came back. 

He knows that some people think it’s hot. Mysterious. That it’s a sign that Even’s some kind of creative genius. But there’s nothing hot about obsession, nothing beautiful in going without sleep. If anyone knows that, it’s Isak. 

Even, on the other hand, is about as beautiful as a human being can be. 

They’ve really only spoken once, and Even basically did all of the speaking. It was a couple of weeks ago, a party at Isak’s bedsit, and he had gone outside to breath in a bit of crisp, November air, to clear his lungs of the fog of beer and perfume and sweat which had permeated the house. Get away for a moment from the music pounding even through the core of his bones. 

Even had been sitting on the steps, back against the door, smoking a joint. Illuminated by the glow of the street lamp, its light glittering in the wet pavement. He’d come unbalanced for a second, when Isak pushed it open, but he seemed to find himself in a second. Shifted a bit to the side to make room for Isak, asked him if he wanted to join. 

And he would have said yes, wanted desperately to say yes, every fiber in his body screamed for it, when Magnus barged out the door in search of him, his trusted beer pong partner. He didn’t see Even for the rest of the night. 

And that was that. 

Since then, he’s tried not to look at Even too much. Hasn’t dared to. It’s like he can’t trust himself right now, can’t trust his body, his brain, his voice around him. Doesn’t know, doesn’t dare find out what looking at Even would do to him. How he would react. 

_ Terribilis ut castrorum acies ordinata,  _ terrible as an army set in array. 

Even isn’t terrible. Even is the farthest thing from terrible, at the opposite pole of terrible. But he sets Isak in disarray, rearranges his insides, his mind, so that he scarcely even knows himself. Jumbles his thoughts to the point that he can’t even untangle them, so there’s no way to free him but to cut him loose. 

It’s almost enough to make him long for Christmas. 

It’ll be painfully quiet. Stiff. Filled to the brim with resentment and unspoken disappointment. But at least he’ll get a break. From Even, from focusing, constantly on not thinking about him, not looking at him, not noticing him. Some breathing room. 

Because Even is so beautiful that it’s almost terrifying. Untenable. It shouldn’t be possible for people as beautiful as him to exist, at least not in Isak’s small, prosaic corner of the world. Even is beautiful in the way only people who are out of reach are beautiful, stars, people in magazines, in ancient paintings. And yet, he’s here. In the row behind Isak, three people down from him. Sometimes, he can almost swear that he can pick out the rumble of Even’s low bass among all the others. Deep and strong. Confident. Isak wishes he could envelop himself in it. Bathe in it, live in it. And that, if anything, is terrifying. 

He’s never felt like this before. 

Not for anything. Not even music. 

Never before felt like he could abandon everything, leave everything behind if that was what it took. Just to be with him. Be close to him. 

And he doesn’t even know him. 

So he keeps his distance. Doesn’t look at Even as much as he’d want to. Hurries out of rehearsal when he senses Even’s eyes on him. 

It’s almost working. 

He presses the piano keys as carefully as he can. The chord is clear and crisp, floats carefully through the dark room. He tries to feel it in his bones, pulls his shoulders back, feels his vocal cords conform to it. 

The bang of the heavy door falling shut explodes in the stillness of the room. 

Isak loses his footing, stumbles, and he catches his balance on the piano, heavy on the keys, the noises mixing, distorting, destroying the peace.

When he regains it, steadies himself and looks back at the door – which he is  _ sure,  _ absolutely certain that he closed behind him – Even steps out of the shadows, into the grey pool of light trickling in. He pulls his hood back from his face, messes up his hair, bites his bottom lip and gives Isak a little wave. 

“Hi – sorry,” he says, looking not at Isak, but somewhere to the left of him. “I just thought I heard something, music, and – the door was heavier than I thought, so –”

Words lodge themselves in Isak’s throat, forming and dying on his tongue, at the sight of Even in soft sweats, sneakers, a giant parkas hanging off his slim shoulders. 

“Okay,” he says at last, because it is all he can manage. 

Even bites his lip again, shoves his bare hands deep into his coat pockets. 

“So…” he asks, dragging the word out, leaving it to linger between them in the darkness long after it’s left his mouth. “What are you doing?” 

He is too obscured for Isak to pick out any detail of his features, but he doesn’t need any light to know them, to picture them. The way his hair curls at the ends, the long line of his neck. The shadow of his cheekbones, the bags under his eyes. It’s enough to drain him of any and all mental capacity, any talent for coming up with witty responses that he might otherwise possess. 

“Ehm,” he starts, with no idea of how to continue. “Rehearsing?” It sounds ludicrous, even to himself. Like a bad excuse one might give a teacher, to obscure either a prank or a crisis. But Even just cocks his head to one side, and through the darkness, Isak can almost feel him scrutinizing him. Then he nods, once, before shrugging off his jacket, disposing of it on the closest chair, and coming up beside Isak. 

“Okay. What are you rehearsing?” He picks up the sheet music, flipping to the front page and squinting to make out the title. “Oh, right.” 

He’s close enough that Isak can smell him, the warmth emanating from his skin, warmth and comfort and softness. Even flips through the sheet music, back to the page Isak had open, his focus seemingly overtaken by the task at hand, and Isak is grateful for that. If they focus on the music, maybe he can get through this. Make an excuse in a little bit, go back to ignoring Even in the morning. 

Maybe, if his focus is on the music, Even won’t notice that Isak’s focus is on him. 

“It’s just this part,” he says, pointing it out. “I know it’s not actually difficult, not in itself, it’s just finding it in the chord.” 

Even nods, hums it to himself, under his breath, just a little off. 

“Yeah, I get that.” Key by key, one long, slim finger at the time, he picks it out, the chord vibrating again through the room, but somehow, it’s not the same as Isak playing it himself. The entire room feels brighter, the darkness less oppressive, now that Even is here. The terror of standing on the stage tomorrow without knowing this perfectly is dissipating, second by second, the thrashing stress in Isak’s stomach replaced by butterflies. 

He looks at Even’s hand to avoid looking at his face, because all he wants is to look at his face. Trace every ridge and curve with his fingertips. Feel the smooth skin of his cheek, the whispering flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks. But it doesn’t exactly help, because he wants those hands on him, too. Wants those fingers to explore every centimeter of his skin, wants them to be the ones that know exactly how to touch him. 

“So, the problem is that you know your voice in isolation but the other voices mess it up, right?” Even is saying, and Isak tears his focus back to his notes, to the task before them. “How about we do that thing from last week, when we sing it facing each other? Maybe that would help?” 

A shudder runs through Isak’s body, from his chest all the way down to his feet, at the memory of that class. Thankfully, he had managed to pair himself off with Magnus, and had avoided Emma, who’d he’d seen was trying to catch his eye. But it was still possibly the most uncomfortable thing he had ever done, staring into Magnus’ eyes, trying not to feel like he was singing  _ to  _ him. 

Doing that with Even? He isn’t sure he’ll survive. 

But Even looks up from the sheet music and smiles at him, and as he turns, the street light catches in his eyes, making them sparkle. 

Isak decides then and there that for Even, he’ll gladly risk it. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

They start a few measures before the really tricky part. Isak tries to focus on the music, he really does, but all he can register, all he can take in is Even’s earnest gaze, trained on Isak. He couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to.

_ Thou art beautiful, oh my love,  _ and Isak can’t help but feel, but imagine, that he means it. 

Their voices soar together, expel the silence, turns the darkness into homey comfort. 

“It sounds really good,” Even encourages, and Isak just hopes that the heat in his cheeks isn’t too obvious. “You’re just a tiny bit high. Want to try again?” 

He can see when he hits the right note by the smile that spreads over Even’s entire face, the light that seems to emanate from him, and it’s like a weight drops from his shoulders. Every part of him feels lighter, his limbs looser, his chest no longer as tight. 

This feels right. 

All of it. 

And Even takes his hand, and puts it to his chest, placing his own hand over Isak’s heart. The rumble of his voice vibrates through Isak, through his core, through every cell in his body. Lodges itself in the memories of his muscles. Envelops him. And from Even’s hand runs a current, a signal, calming the storm in his veins, loosening the knots throughout his body. 

When they quiet, neither of them let go. 

Even’s hand is steady on Isak’s chest. He can feel his heart beating against it, or maybe it’s Even’s heart he feels. 

The street light paints a halo in Even’s hair. He sparkles. 

He’s beautiful, but it’s no longer terrifying. Nothing is. Not the concert, not seeing his parents. Not even the enormity of his feelings. 

“Again?” Even says, “To really make it stick?” 

And Isak nods, but he already knows it’s unnecessary. It’s seared into him, into his brain, his throat, stomach, body. With Even, into his soul. 


End file.
